Lord.’” Luke Fisher’s beautiful baritone washed over
Claire’s ruffled emotions the way the coffee had over her tongue, soothing and sweet. “They’ll be coming to the county fair,”
he went on, “so if you’re in the neighborhood, be sure to check them out. Who knows—we at KGHM might even be there ourselves.
Our listeners have been so generous that we could have our mobile station by then and could catch the girls for a live performance
and an interview. What do you think about that?”
From somewhere among the tables on the sidewalk outside the coffee bar, someone said, “Yeah!”
Sipping her latte, Claire considered the storefronts along Main Street. Clothing stores. A hobby shop. The bookshop, the ice-cream
shop, and the coffee bar. The lawyer’s office. Hmm. Lawyers billed by the hour, didn’t they? Maybe she could ask Derrick if
they needed someone. There was the hospital’s accounting department, too. Only as a last resort would she consider retail
or being a checker at the supermarket—no employer of the kind she wanted would look at her if that appeared on her résumé.
With a sigh, she turned away and caught sight of the bulletin board near the door of the coffee bar. She knew what was on
it—business cards, ads for tree trimmers and massage therapists. Part-time jobs, such as delivering flyers. No real employer
would post—
WANTED: Full-time bookkeeper. Must know spreadsheet software, be detail-oriented, meticulous. Two to three years’ experience
and two-year degree. Sense of humor mandatory. Send qualifications and résumé to 98.5 KGHM, 254 Main Street, Hamilton Falls,
WA. Attention: John Willetts.
Claire stood as if rooted to the sidewalk, her latte cooling her hand. The card was a little yellowed, as if it had been pinned
there in the sun for at least a week.
Yellowed or not, it was a sign.
She leaned over and dropped her cup into the nearest trash can, adjusted her purse on her shoulder, straightened her skirt
and her spine, and marched into the station.
* * *
THE ROOM WHERE Luke Fisher played the music faced Main Street and had a large picture window so passersby could see him behind his console.
Inside, there was another large window between the entry hall where Claire stood and what looked like a library, where the
walls were covered in bookshelves holding records and CDs. Most of the records looked as though they hadn’t been moved since
they’d been shelved sometime in the sixties.
She looked through the window a little uncertainly. This wasn’t her world at all. She had gone from listening to the radio
to walking into the station, all in a couple of weeks or less. A year ago, even a few months ago, she’d never have believed
she would do such a thing.
Luke waved at her, and it was too late to back out.
“Use the door.” His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear his voice—maybe his studio was soundproof. She pushed open the door
next to the window and walked into the library. At the same time, he came out of the studio, shutting that door carefully
behind him.
“Hi.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. “I’m Luke Fisher, and you’re clearly one of my sisters in God. I remember you
from Gathering. What can I do for you?”
You can stop thinking of me as a sister.
“My name is Claire Montoya. I—I was reading the bulletin board next door and saw the ad about the station needing a bookkeeper.”
She wished her voice wouldn’t wobble when she needed to appear professional and competent. But it was hard to be professional
when Luke Fisher was standing directly in front of her, still holding her hand, wearing his Dockers as well as any L.L. Bean
model and smelling of some yummy cologne.
He smiled and let go of her hand. “Come on back to the booth, Claire.” At the door to the studio, he looked over his shoulder
at her. “There’s only one rule in here. You talk when the music’s on, and you don’t
Claire’s ruffled emotions the way the coffee had over her tongue, soothing and sweet. “They’ll be coming to the county fair,”
he went on, “so if you’re in the neighborhood, be sure to check them out. Who knows—we at KGHM might even be there ourselves.
Our listeners have been so generous that we could have our mobile station by then and could catch the girls for a live performance
and an interview. What do you think about that?”
From somewhere among the tables on the sidewalk outside the coffee bar, someone said, “Yeah!”
Sipping her latte, Claire considered the storefronts along Main Street. Clothing stores. A hobby shop. The bookshop, the ice-cream
shop, and the coffee bar. The lawyer’s office. Hmm. Lawyers billed by the hour, didn’t they? Maybe she could ask Derrick if
they needed someone. There was the hospital’s accounting department, too. Only as a last resort would she consider retail
or being a checker at the supermarket—no employer of the kind she wanted would look at her if that appeared on her résumé.
With a sigh, she turned away and caught sight of the bulletin board near the door of the coffee bar. She knew what was on
it—business cards, ads for tree trimmers and massage therapists. Part-time jobs, such as delivering flyers. No real employer
would post—
WANTED: Full-time bookkeeper. Must know spreadsheet software, be detail-oriented, meticulous. Two to three years’ experience
and two-year degree. Sense of humor mandatory. Send qualifications and résumé to 98.5 KGHM, 254 Main Street, Hamilton Falls,
WA. Attention: John Willetts.
Claire stood as if rooted to the sidewalk, her latte cooling her hand. The card was a little yellowed, as if it had been pinned
there in the sun for at least a week.
Yellowed or not, it was a sign.
She leaned over and dropped her cup into the nearest trash can, adjusted her purse on her shoulder, straightened her skirt
and her spine, and marched into the station.
* * *
THE ROOM WHERE Luke Fisher played the music faced Main Street and had a large picture window so passersby could see him behind his console.
Inside, there was another large window between the entry hall where Claire stood and what looked like a library, where the
walls were covered in bookshelves holding records and CDs. Most of the records looked as though they hadn’t been moved since
they’d been shelved sometime in the sixties.
She looked through the window a little uncertainly. This wasn’t her world at all. She had gone from listening to the radio
to walking into the station, all in a couple of weeks or less. A year ago, even a few months ago, she’d never have believed
she would do such a thing.
Luke waved at her, and it was too late to back out.
“Use the door.” His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear his voice—maybe his studio was soundproof. She pushed open the door
next to the window and walked into the library. At the same time, he came out of the studio, shutting that door carefully
behind him.
“Hi.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. “I’m Luke Fisher, and you’re clearly one of my sisters in God. I remember you
from Gathering. What can I do for you?”
You can stop thinking of me as a sister.
“My name is Claire Montoya. I—I was reading the bulletin board next door and saw the ad about the station needing a bookkeeper.”
She wished her voice wouldn’t wobble when she needed to appear professional and competent. But it was hard to be professional
when Luke Fisher was standing directly in front of her, still holding her hand, wearing his Dockers as well as any L.L. Bean
model and smelling of some yummy cologne.
He smiled and let go of her hand. “Come on back to the booth, Claire.” At the door to the studio, he looked over his shoulder
at her. “There’s only one rule in here. You talk when the music’s on, and you don’t
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